


When the whiskey's not so neat

by keysburg



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Multi, Pining, Pre-OT3, This got darker than I anticipated, Whiskey - Freeform, so much whiskey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysburg/pseuds/keysburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Napoleon Solo put down his drink, and one time he didn’t</p><p>(Of course they all have to do with his frustrating, challenging and terribly attractive teammates.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the whiskey's not so neat

**The first time,** Napoleon was put off his whiskey when he heard the name U.N.C.L.E. Waverly had just announced that they’d be leaving in an hour for Istanbul. Solo looked at the two other spies, fellow victims of manipulation in Waverly’s schemes, and set his glass down. If they were leaving that quickly, he wanted to be sober. The soft buzz of intoxication had made a nice buffer between him and the reality of his situation, strong-armed into working for the CIA. He was less than pleased he was now in the same situation under the auspices of a foreign country, or at least a foreign agent, that smug prig Waverly no less. Things had changed now that he was no longer working alone though. If he was going to keep up with Peril--and Gaby, who turned out more devious than he would have expected--he was going to have to be as sharp as possible. There was no way he was going to let Kuryakin get one up on him--not after the man managed to rescue him via overlooked bugs. And then there was Gaby. Napoleon had to admire how well she played her role to the hilt, from beginning to end. The way she gave her reluctant cooperation all the way through her masterful double cross indicated she was more than a match for either of them where spycraft was involved. Since she worked for Waverly she already had an advantage, and he had no reason to trust her not to press it too far.

Unless maybe Peril and the chop shop girl sufficiently distracted each other from the mission. Then it would probably be safe enough to relax a little. Goodness knows he found them both distracting enough, in the personal sense. He couldn’t assume the tension bubbling between them would continue to grow now that they were a more permanent unit; he’d have to wait and see. Given Gaby’s betrayal, the whole thing could have been a feint. 

In the end, they didn’t have time for personal distractions during the Istanbul Affair. Peril surprised him with his ease in adapting in disguise and manner of the locals. Gaby continued to shine as she flirted shamelessly with the mark. If Solo took a little too much enjoyment disabling the man once she isolated him, he told himself it looked only like he was ready for the job to be over. The single day off they had after was at least something where clear memories were not a burden but a treasure. Even Illya had seemed to enjoy himself, although he spent too much time fiddling with his camera. Napoleon didn’t begrudge him after he saw the prints, working on the post-mission report. He was particularly fascinated with the one where he was swinging Gaby on the beach. He couldn’t remember when the last time he felt that carefree and was surprised to see it captured on film, the joy evident in his whole body. It was a startling contrast compared to his posture in the other snaps, where he could see only artifice disguised as control.

 

 **The second time,** he was fixing his drink in a mark’s office in London and was struck with an unsettling sense of deja vu. The situation was not precisely the same as it had been in Victoria’s office. For one, he had back up this time. Peril was on a rooftop across the street, the sights of a rifle trained on the window next to the bar. For another, he hadn’t ended up sleeping with this mark to distract them, and thus was not under the assumption that he had the upper hand. The situation was just familiar enough to ping his instincts. Uncomfortable, he finished pouring his drink but never took a sip. It sat on the coffee table in front of him until their meeting was concluded. Napoleon fervently hoped he wouldn’t be put off his drink every time he had a one-on-one confrontation in an entirely too modern office, as it was sure to get awkward. When the mark showed him out, Napoleon slammed the door as planned and booked it for the stairs. Gaby’s scream from downstairs sounded just on time and in the chaos he didn’t even hear the glass shatter. The three of them were across town at their exfiltration point before the body was even discovered. It was the perfect application of their individuals skills: his own charm, Gaby’s practiced abilities at dissembling and distraction, and Illya’s ruthless discipline. At some point since Rome they had stopped jockeying for supremacy and started working smoothly as a team. 

That was not to say that it was okay to show any weakness. It was one thing to admit that a teammate’s skill was better applied in a specific situation, because another’s strength did not prove your deficiency. It would be another thing entirely to reveal a vulnerability his teammates may use against him in the future. To that end, it was just as well he didn’t drink anything. The exfiltration was via small private boat and he ended up quite seasick, although he tried not to let on to the others. When he exited the head for the third time in an hour, Gaby was waiting outside the door and discreetly passed him a chunk of candied ginger, which he sucked on gratefully. He averted his eyes and told himself he was imagining it when Illya seemed to be observing his mouth a little too closely. He’d die before he’d admit his seasickness to Peril.

 

 **The third time** was the most annoying, when they were undercover in Kentucky. It was bourbon country, for crying out loud, and he was playing a good ol’ boy from Alabama. He was already making a mockery of the English language with his Southern drawl, a little slurring on top would have hardly been out of place at the party of a Kentucky senator. He had just poured himself a second round when he caught the tell-tale shake of Peril’s hands. The other man was all the way on the other side of the room, talking to someone, and the movement was small but apparently something Napoleon had learned to key in on. He didn’t know what insult the man had just suffered, and it could be anything when the crowd represented the worst of Western politics. Illya couldn’t be allowed to disrupt the party, or the mission. So Solo left his drink on a table as he strode quickly across the room, none-too-subtly grabbing Peril by the elbow.

“It’s quite lovely out tonight, but I think it could be better appreciated on the porch,” he said, hustling the man out a side door by digging his thumb right into the bend of Ilya’s arm. The minor pain was enough of a distraction for Napoleon to get him out the door and onto the wrap-around porch of the stately home they were visiting. It wasn’t enough for him to keep control of the larger man, who promptly shook him off and shoved him back against the side of the house. Fortunately the porch on this side was currently empty, so there was no one to see the two of them pressed together, closer than they been since a rough scuffle in a Berlin men’s bathroom. Months of working together meant Solo was no longer worried that Illya might kill him. The huge Russian looming angrily over him might hurt him a little, if he lost control, but that wouldn’t be too bad.

It might not be bad at all.

“What are you doing, Cowboy?” Illya growled, distracting him from that ill-timed thought. 

“Stopping you from making a scene. If you get kicked out of the party before Gaby finds what she’s looking for, at worst they’ll throw her out with you, and at best she’ll be left with only me to cover her. At a party this size, that’s hardly ideal.” Napoleon watched the tension drain out of Illya’s body as his words sunk in. They both tensed again a moment when a giggling couple, obviously looking for some privacy, came around the corner of the porch.

“This is quite a compromising situation, Peril. Better either hit me or kiss me,” he whispered. 

He tried not to be too disappointed when he got the one less likely to get them both beaten, arrested or worse. Illya did him the courtesy of pulling his punch and managed not to split the skin. Their audience fell for it anyway, the male part of the couple going to pull Illya away and the female half coming over to fuss over Napoleon where he had let himself fall to the porch floor. She was quite sweet, helping him up and taking him to get some ice for his face. It was hard not to snicker when he caught Illya’s eyeroll as he let the woman help him inside, but he managed to make it look like a wince instead.

Unfortunately, in addition to being very kind, she was some sort of temperance advocate too. The woman insisted he not have another bourbon, not even to dull the pain. It was a relief when Gaby came to fetch him once she found the safe. He was relieved to be able to work already, and not because she winced at his developing shiner. Or because she impulsively popped up on her tiptoes to brush her lips oh-so-gently against his cheekbone, like she could kiss it and make it better.

After the safe was compromised, of course it was time to leave. He tried to convince her that since he acquired evidence of the Senator’s alliance with T.H.R.U.S.H. without attracting attention, they might as well enjoy the party for a bit. However, Illya had reached his limit with the Western attitudes of the politicians the party, and she had to drag him off, this time heading for their car. Which left Napoleon to pretend to wander outside for a walk. It ended up more of a miserable hike, his face throbbing. When they planned for him to travel across the grounds to meet the car at the rendezvous point down the road, he hadn’t anticipated being bruised--or completely sober. Their host lived in the middle of nowhere, too, and it was a long drive on dark, winding country roads before they arrived anywhere that resembled civilization. He managed to fall asleep in the backseat of the car, trusting to Gaby’s driving abilities. Pillowing his head on his folded suit jacket wasn’t comforting as the slow burn of bourbon in his throat. At least asleep he didn’t have to see Illya’s long fingers where they threaded through Gaby’s delicate ones. Or think about why they let him see it, or how soft Gaby’s lips had been, or wonder what any of it meant. 

 

 **The fourth time,** he only had himself to blame. For once he was well on his way to a decent buzz too, not that it worked in his favor. They ended up having a layover in Amsterdam for a night. It was a rare situation for them all to be together in a city where they didn’t have to prep for a job or weren’t trying to get out of Dodge already. So Napoleon applied his considerable charm to convincing his teammates to go out and actually relax for once. 

So they had dinner at a fashionable cafe recommended by the hotel clerk, a lovely tall and typically blonde Nordic woman. The first bar they visited after was too loud, too rambunctious for his mood. The second was much more inviting, with cozy booths and soft jazz. He had a plan, too. He was going to drink just enough for plausible deniability, should he need it, but not so much to be impaired. Then he was going to whisper something suggestive in Gaby’s ear, while leaning over her… to rest his hand on Illya’s knee. So he was on the way back to the booth from the bar with his fourth round to put the plan into action… only to find it empty. And there was a soft gasp coming from nearby.

The hallway to the bathroom was next to their booth and hung with heavy curtains. He drew one curtain back carefully, only to find his teammates locked in a kiss. He dropped the curtain and spun on his heel, dropping his glass at their booth as he went. Normally he would have enjoyed the sight of Gaby with her head tilted all the way back, Illya bending down to reach her lips, his hand moving up her thigh. He would have enjoyed it if he had been welcome, but he had to think their timing and their choice of venue was less an invitation and more a hint to get lost. So he did. He could have sat at the booth, sinking into whiskey’s warm embrace, and said something suggestive when (if) they returned. If he got drunk enough, he wouldn’t care if they didn’t return, but the idea held no appeal. 

Once outside he briefly considered heading back to the hotel and looking up that clerk, but that wasn’t the tall blonde he wanted. Instead he went for a walk along the canals, lost in thought, the night slowly growing more foggy the longer he was out. It was almost dawn before he returned to the hotel, and was surprised to find Peril asleep against the wall next to the door of his room. He kicked the man’s shoes gently as he went to open the door.

“Cowboy,” the man rumbled from the floor, “it is very rude to run out in the middle of a nice evening.” Napoleon didn’t even know what to do with that, as tired as he was. He fell back to insults.

“And it’s stupid to sleep on the floor when I know you could have let yourself into my room,” he shot back, slamming the door behind him. Instead of thinking about why Illya might have been waiting for him, he went and got into the shower. They had a very early flight. 

 

 **The fifth time** was the worst, no question. Napoleon had just stumbled back to their safehouse in Prague, bruised, battered and splattered in blood, fortunately not his own. He had gotten jumped by three StB agents at the Old Jewish Cemetery. He was supposed to be meeting a contact there for some intel, but the man rabbitted as soon as Solo arrived at the location. He barely caught a glimpse of Peril’s long legs taking chase before the first blows landed. Napoleon took several vicious hits to the head and his kidneys before he managed to react. The only reason he was alive was because the agents attempted to beat him into submission and didn’t know about the knife up his sleeve. It was less of a conscious decision and more of a reaction to palm the knife and slash for overconfident throats. The last man tried to get inside his reach and ended up with the blade between his ribs for his efforts. Napoleon had to push him off and stood panting, three bleeding bodies twitching at his feet. His stomach lurched and his head pounded with adrenaline, but the danger was over. The graveyard now stood cold and silent, and a quick lap through the surrounding blocks provided no hint as to where Peril might have gone. 

So he limped back to the safe house, expecting his Russian partner had caught and dragged his contact there already. Gaby took one look at Napoleon and poured him a drink before reaching for the first aid kit. He went to picked up the drink, trying to steady the shake in his hand before she could see it.

“Where’s Peril?” he asked. He met Gaby’s eyes and dropped the glass from suddenly nerveless fingers as the realisation struck. He dove for his tracking kit, pulling up Illya’s location.

The violence at the graveyard may have been reactionary, but deaths of those who had taken Peril were nothing but cold blooded murder. He no longer cared about the mission or why the StB had taken prisoner a man who was still a member of a “friendly” agency. He never even considered keeping one alive for information. It was too easy to take out the men guarding the entrance with a silenced pistol. It may have been dangerous to just walk into the room where the remaining three men had Illya tied to a chair, but Solo only took one round in his left arm before they were all dead. He emptied his clip into the face of the man who injured him, completely obliterating it, before untying Illya. 

The whole fiasco managed to rupture even Waverly’s formidable British reserve, but Solo just sat silently through the man’s tirade. He made no quips in response to any of Waverly’s insults and his teammates did nothing but defend his actions, difficult as that was. They all ended up with two weeks’ leave and Waverly’s clear threat that a longer suspension would be following if they didn’t get their heads screwed on straight.

 

 **He let Gaby** make their vacation arrangements, which was a mistake. Well, it was less of a mistake and more just easier to do what the small, angry German woman insisted on. Left up to his own devices he would have wandered back to London and spent two weeks at the theater. Or maybe he would have trekked up to Edinburgh and spent it swilling Scotch and bedding Scots. Anything to put his infuriating teammates out of his mind for a bit. 

Instead he found himself in the Greek Islands, which he hadn’t visited for a very long time. With good reason. Adding insult to injury, she found them a lovely suite--with only two bedrooms. He promptly locked himself into one and spent the whole day sitting out on the terrace, watching sailboats drift in and out of the impossibly blue harbor. 

It was evening before he heard them at the door. Apparently Peril was letting Gaby try her hand at picking the lock because it was at least twenty minutes before they made it inside the room. They were only on the third floor, so it would have been more than enough time to shimmy down the drainpipe. He considered it, rather than dealing with them. It seemed like too much effort, so he was still sitting there when they wandered in like it hadn’t taken forever for them to open the door.

Illya had the glasses and the bottle this time, and poured them each a drink. Napoleon expected ouzo--he couldn’t stand it--and was pleased to note a decent Irish whiskey instead. They sat on either side of him at the table, sipping. Eventually he couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“What?” he asked shortly.

“We didn’t come all the way here for you to sit and sulk alone,” Gaby said, already done with the single finger Illya had poured her. “You can talk, or you can drink, but preferably you do both.” He swallowed the contents of his glass down, dropping it back on the table with way more force than was necessary.

“I’m not sulking. Happy?” he asked, the bite in his voice matching the sensation of the whiskey as it hit the back of his palate. 

“Not by half,” she said, pouring them both a more generous portion.

“Cowboy,” Illya said, “you’ll feel better if you talk.” He didn’t expect this gentle approach--from either of them--and it left him feeling oddly vulnerable. He lashed out again.

“The Red Peril is advocating sharing feelings? The man who only communicates with a glare or his fists?” 

“I can start if you like,” he continued, as if Napoleon hadn’t spoken. “I liked watching you kill those men.” For once, Napoleon is speechless. “I knew you would come after me, of course. I wasn’t sure I’d be alive when you arrived. The look on your face, when you came through the door--you seldom reveal so much. And it was a relief to watch my captors die. It was difficult to watch you turn that man’s face to pulp, however. I worry that you lost something.” 

“I work for a covert spy organization with two Communist teammates. At the behest of my own countrymen, who manipulated me into their service. I wasn’t aware I had anything to lose.”

“Always something to lose, Cowboy,” he responded seriously. “You know it, or you wouldn’t have come for me, as they say, hell-for-leather.” 

“And we don’t want to lose you either,” Gaby chimed in. A little spark lit his belly at that, but he couldn’t afford to hope. Not yet. 

“Like you would miss me,” he scoffed at her. “You’re both so in love with each other, I often wonder if you realize other people exist at all.” He didn’t miss the look that passed between them then, half affection, half exasperation. 

“You,” she said evenly, “are the most irritating and dense person that I have ever met.” 

“And handsome,” Peril chimed in. “Don’t forget.” 

“How could I?” Gaby replied dryly, but Napoleon was too busy looking at Illya. Who leaned in, took Napoleon’s chin in his hand, and brushed his lips all-too-gently against his own. Napoleon froze, staring as the other man pulled away. 

“Starting to catch on yet?” Gaby asked. He turned back to find her standing over him. She, too, leaned over and kissed him, deeper and wetter than her counterpart. He reached for her, but she pulled away, her hips swaying as she headed indoors. 

“Bring the bottle,” she called over her shoulder. He looked at Illya, who smirked and followed her inside. A slow smile lit his face, and he drained his glass before doing the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Why has Napoleon been avoiding the Greek Isles? http://archiveofourown.org/works/4941469


End file.
